


A Good Man

by lilpeas



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Crack, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Humor, Loneliness, M/M, Massage, Mutual Pining, Pining, Romantic Comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:13:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22290868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilpeas/pseuds/lilpeas
Summary: He kneaded at Geralt’s back until it was soft and pliant, and Geralt was making these short little huffed breaths. But Geralt didn’t once ask him to stop, even when Jaskier had gone over the same section of scar tissue three times, so Jaskier took matters into his own hands and leaned back.“Right.” He said, bright and cheery. “That should be you all done. All nice and … squishy.”Geralt twisted his head on the pillow and glared at him.“What?” Jaskier asked.Geralt set his jaw and turned back around, mulish.Geralt isn't very good at asking for what he wants, or even understanding his wants for that matter. Luckily, Jaskier is hell-bent on finding out what pleases Geralt for himself. Even if he doesn't realise they both want the same thing.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 122
Kudos: 1977
Collections: Epic To Read List





	A Good Man

**Author's Note:**

> Starting off 2020 with a bang, a new fandom! I have fallen down the rabbit hole that is The Witcher and can't get out. Something about Geralt and Jaskier's dynamic is so familar to me, it reminds me of Arthur and Merlin or Derek and Stiles, but then there are all these little things that make their relationship unique. I truly love these characters! 
> 
> Also, I realise this fic is half paraphrased scenes from the actual show, but this is what came out when I started writing: 6k words of absolute fluff.

The thing about The White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia, Butcher of Blaviken, is that he’s just _not intimidating at all._

Which is why the stories make absolutely no sense. A ruthless killer, a bloodthirsty beast who can’t tell the difference between an innocent bystander and the monster he’s been sent to slay. Would sooner slit your throat than speak a word, whose eyes could paralyse a man and give Medusa a run for her money.

Oh sure, it’s true that Geralt _tries_. Does his whole hulking and sulking act, puts on a show. But Jaskier’s seen enough truly intimidating men in his short and admittedly rather eventful life not to have noticed right away that Geralt isn’t one of them.

Has known the art of performance a little too well not to notice the loneliness that weighs down on the great White Wolf’s shoulders.

Jaskier watches him for a little while. He knows who Geralt is: of course he does. He’s been tracking across half the globe trying to avoid the man. From all the stories he’s heard it didn’t seem like they would get along. In fact, Jaskier’s brash and violent version of a personality has often put off even the kindest of souls.

He didn’t fancy his chances with a renowned Witcher.

As soon as Geralt steps into the tavern, it immediately falls silent. Jaskier tries not to let it perturb him as he strums his lute and sings his song, and if his voice is a little softer then so be it.

But the Witcher makes no trouble. Goes to the barmaid quietly, orders his food and drink, and sits down in the furthest corner of the room.

Jaskier is intrigued.

He finishes up the song and everyone gives a polite clap (with a few impolite jeers thrown in for good measure), tosses him a couple coins along with some rolls of bread and goes back to their ale.

Jaskier bends to collect his small fortune of stale bread and copper, but the light streams through the window in such a way that it glints as he crouches.

Jaskier frowns, glances up. The sun is catching on two swords rested on the seat beside the Witcher like companions.

Jaskier looks at the Witcher as he leans over his meal, protective, and starts shovelling in the still-steaming food.

Jaskier pushes his lute around his back and moves a little closer, leans against a wooden pillar and watches.

The Witcher seems none the wiser.

He eats his meal as if he won’t get the chance to finish, taking sips of his ale in-between, cheeks bunched in what looked like ravenous hunger. He doesn’t glance around once.

He knows there’s a pair of eyes on him though. Jaskier can see his shoulders creep steadily higher the more time passes.

But he never dares to turn around.

Why?

Jaskier tilts his head to get a better view.

The Witcher keeps eating. His clothes are filthy, his hair is filthy. The smell emanating off him is what greets people at the gates of hell, Jaskier imagines.

But the longer Jaskier watches, the lower the Witcher’s shoulders get. As if deciding there’s no threat; the person watching is merely curious. Jaskier can tell his hackles are raised though, his animal instincts alert. But he chews with such a determination and speed it’s admirable, as if to get the whole ordeal out the way and move on before anyone can approach him.

Jaskier likes him. Then and there, he decides _I like you._

So he clips his heels in a jaunty little skip and walks on over.

“Any comments on my song?” He grins wide. “Feedback at all?”

Geralt of Rivia looks up. His expression is wary and resigned, but nobody could deny his face is a handsome one. He pushes his ale away and sighs, straightens up as if readying himself for something truly unpleasant.

Jaskier falters a little. Maybe the man really does wish to be alone. Maybe Jaskier’s read him all wrong.

“Come on.” He tries. “You don’t want to keep a man with…” He searches. “… Bread in his pants, waiting.” Jaskier inwardly grimaces.

And maybe outwardly grimaces a little bit too.

Geralt just huffs, a small and almost imperceptible noise. Eventually with a voice even and measured and as deep as the core of the Earth, says: “I wish to drink alone.”

What a polite response! Jaskier immediately slides into the seat opposite.

“Oh, come on. Three words or less! You must have something to say.” He gives his best genial expression, perky and alert and unafraid.

Maybe Geralt will think a kind word just the thing to open a conversation and become the first half-decent interaction he’s had in a while. Or so Jaskier supposes, with the wide berth he’s been given so far.

Hopefully he’ll relax those damned stiff shoulders at the very least.

“They don’t exist.”

Jaskier blinks, thrown. “H-Huh?”

“The creatures in your song.” Geralt continues through clenched teeth, as if to move his lips the smallest amount possible.

“And how would you know?” Jaskier throws back.

He only realises the mistake in his words when Geralt’s carefully neutral expression falters. His face remains impassive, but it’s the eyes that give him away. Something in them goes slightly … dim.

Geralt stands up before Jaskier can even move.

“I know who you areee!” Jaskier sings, because maybe the poor man thinks Jaskier none the wiser, and if Jaskier finds out he’ll be sent running when that’s very _clearly_ not the case. Quite the opposite in fact! A plan is forming in Jaskier’s mind, a brilliant plan of a Bard and a Butcher teaming up. “You’re the Witcher, Geralt of Rivia!”

Geralt seems to move faster at that.

“Butcher of Blaviken!” Jaskier tacks on, because Jaskier knows: he’s heard the tales, he’s not afraid.

The door to the tavern swings shut.

Jaskier’s smile falls as he realises everyone is watching.

“Just, if you’ll.” He holds up a finger. “Excuse.”

He’s after Geralt like a shot.

Not that he has to run very far. Geralt is taking a leisurely stroll with his horse along the dirt path, rather unconcerned in Jaskier’s opinion. Surely he’d mount the mare if he were truly worried about Jaskier coming after him? Surely he’d simply ride off and not allow Jaskier to catch up? Right?

“Look, I can be your bard!” Jaskier is shouting, stumbling in his haste as he clutches his lute. “I can write songs of your great legends! The Bard and the Butcher –”

After Geralt punches him in the stomach, well. The rest is history.

*

“Oh _please_.” Jaskier presses his palms flat together and kneels by Geralt’s … tub-side. “This is a wonderful opportunity, lords and kings and who knows who else will be there! Their pockets are fuller than – than something full, please Geralt, if you –”

“Why do you need me there?” Geralt asks, very reasonably Jaskier will admit.

“Because I don’t trust them not to gut me after the first song.” Jaskier smiles, meek.

Geralt grunts and goes back to scrubbing the literal guts out his hair. And Jaskier knows what guts look like now. He doesn’t fancy comparing the sight to his _own_.

“Please, for your _best_ friend in the entire world –”

“We’re not friends.” Geralt states.

“Oh?” Jaskier lifts a brow, too used to this conversation for it to bring even the slightest sting that it used to. “So you let any passing stranger rub camomile onto your lovely bottom?”

Geralt looks up with murder in his gaze. They has a wordless agreement never to discuss it.

Not that Jaskier thinks about it all the time. Nope. Not one bit.

“Look.” Jaskier tries reason if emotion won’t work. “It’ll be an hour of your life. Fine dining, fine women. What do you say?”

Geralt doesn’t deign to reply, instead stands up so abruptly a cascade of water splashes around both sides of the bathtub.

Jaskier feels his face flame with heat. He keeps his gaze on Geralt’s and pointedly doesn’t look anywhere else.

Geralt keeps his gaze steady on Jaskier’s before he reaches for a towel and rubs his face with it. Because of all the things to cover, his face is the first thing he chooses.

It breaks their eye-contact, and Jaskier immediately throws his eyes to the floor.

He’s well acquainted with the mistake of not doing so and his eyes landing on the nearest thing to Geralt’s face, which happens to be Geralt’s … body.

Yes. Alright. Jaskier is human: he isn’t _proud_ of that, but he is the terrible, humiliating, feeble creature Geralt is not. 

And as a human, who could resist? Really, Jaskier would love to meet the person able to withstand Geralt of Rivia’s wild and untamed beauty.

He’s the finest specimen Jaskier has ever laid eyes on, and Jaskier is a romantic at soul after all.

It was only inevitable.

Of course, Jaskier should be well used to Geralt’s naked form by now. He’s seen it often enough. He’s _touched_ it even, but mostly after a particularly difficult monster managed to sink its claws in and make Geralt too inept to tend to his own wounds.

On those occasions, Jaskier has stripped Geralt quickly and efficiently, barely noticing the naked skin for all the blood that covered it.

He really does hate to think of what Geralt did before him. Hates to think of Geralt alone and stumbling in the woods, his hands pressed to his open wounds as he inhales, exhales, the way he does when Jaskier dresses the gashes, the way the sound of it rasps and rattles inside his lungs.

Hates to imagine Geralt lying up against the wet bark of a tree, rain slashing down across his face, and waiting to either heal or die.

Mostly, Jaskier hates to think of Geralt slaying the latest of some villagers plague, only to be tossed a coin and thrown out in the cold, not even a free drink or a word of thanks to show for it.

“Too good for these people, honestly, Geralt, should just – turn right around and tell them nope, sorry, that one was too hard, couldn’t do it, so I’ll be off now, I’d rather leave with my life intact and still existent –”

Geralt usually only wheezes through Jaskier’s panicked monologues and closes his eyes, submits himself to Jaskier’s inexperienced hands and falls asleep once Jaskier has managed to stop the blood flow.

Only after those first few times, Geralt came to Jaskier for more than just life-saving and sloppy bandages.

They’d settled into a room for the night, glad to be off the road even for a short while, and Jaskier had just tucked himself into his bed-roll – because they only had enough coin for one room and Jaskier would rather be damned than let Geralt sleep on the floor after battling a monster and saving people’s lives – when Geralt cleared his throat.

“Jaskier.”

The way Geralt said his name never failed to make Jaskier’s blood travel to his face and … other regions. He over-enunciates the ‘k’, usually when he’s shouting the name in either panic or annoyance.

But when he says it the way he did then, soft and barely audible, a husk of a thing, Jaskier could just melt.

“Yes, Geralt?” Jaskier called back.

“Can you … tend to my wounds?”

Jaskier was up in a flash. “What’s bothering you? Your arm? Your ribs?”

“No, ah.” Geralt cleared his throat and produced a clear vial. “It’s my old wounds. There’s one on my back causing me bother.”

Jaskier blinked, thrown. “S-Sure!”

He wasn’t exactly sure in the slightest what was happening, but Geralt made requests so infrequently that Jaskier loathed to deny even his ‘shut up’ – which was growing far and few between these days, anyway.

Geralt put the vial on the nightstand, lay down on his stomach, and seemed to simply … wait.

“Right. I’ll.” Jaskier picked up the vial and turned it around. Camomile. Right. Good for scar tissue, he’d heard. Good for other things, but Jaskier shoves that firmly to the back of his mind.

Geralt was already shirtless, because when is he ever not, and so all Jaskier had to do was climb on top of him (of course) and set to work.

It must have been penance for a past life, a past lover, a past insult in one of his songs. It _must_ have been. Why else was Jaskier subjected to massaging warm oil on Geralt of Rivia’s hot, muscular back? Why else was he stationed over Geralt’s sinfully slender hips and tasked with the Herculean task of not reacting at all?

Geralt shifted under his hands and made another sound, a grunt but softer, coming from the base of his throat as if he didn’t mean for it to slip out. Jaskier’s entire head was being roasted above an open fire. He was terrified Geralt would see. He moved his hands lower; Geralt made another involuntary sound.

“Is it down here that hurts?” Jaskier’s voice was unrecognisable. It might not have been as low as Geralt’s, but it was a near thing.

Geralt grunted in affirmation, clearly an intentional noise, so Jaskier moved lower, and lower, and lower…

“Uh, Geralt?” He piped up. “Do you want …?”

Geralt said nothing.

Jaskier’s hands hovered above Geralt’s hips, the small of his back where he could feel the most tension: the knotted, stiff muscle a ball underneath his skin. “Do you…?”

“Just get on with it, Jaskier.” Geralt huffed, somehow managing to sound resigned despite the fact he’d _asked_ Jaskier to do this and was currently sprawled across his front in what _appeared_ to be a willing pose.

“Righty-ho.” Jaskier said, cursed himself, and set to work once again.

He kneaded at Geralt’s back until it was soft and pliant, and Geralt was making these short little huffed breaths. But Geralt didn’t once ask him to stop, even when Jaskier had gone over the same section of scar three times, so Jaskier took matters into his own hands and leaned back.

“Right.” He said, bright and cheery. “That should be you all done. All nice and … squishy.”

Geralt twisted his head on the pillow and glared at him.

“What?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt set his jaw and turned back around, mulish.

“Did I do it wrong?” Jaskier frowned, because he truly couldn’t think of what it was Geralt was silently and stoically telling him.

“You didn’t …” Geralt trailed off, grunted out a familiar _humph_. “Never mind.”

“What?” Jaskier asked, affronted. “I didn’t what? I’ll have you know I’ve been complimented on the skill and dexterity of my hands _many_ times –”

“My backside!” Geralt shouted. “You didn’t get to my arse!”

There was silence.

“I didn’t. _Know_ you wanted …”

Geralt was sullen and silent.

Jaskier took a sharp breath, squared his shoulders, and poured some more camomile over both his hands. “Right.” He stated.

He pulled down the waistband of Geralt’s ridiculous and _hellishly_ tight trousers, which left very little to the imagination Jaskier has pointed out many times. It revealed a very pert, round arse.

Geralt did nothing. He rested his chin atop his two hands and waited, perfectly genial.

 _This man,_ Jaskier thought.

But if he didn’t do it now, Geralt would think something amiss and it would only take seconds to figure out Jaskier’s very obvious problem with this situation.

So he laid both oiled-up hands on Geralt’s backside, as Geralt so politely put it, and for a third time set to working out the … stiffness.

It didn’t take long. Mainly because there wasn’t much stiffness, so to speak. Jaskier couldn’t exactly understand how something so supple could hold any tension in it, anyhow.

Either way, he was so preoccupied with not evaporating right then and there on the spot that he also didn’t exactly notice the time pass, nor the huffed noises coming from Geralt, or the softness of his skin and the perkiness of the muscle as it sprung back every time Jaskier pushed down on it.

Nope. Jaskier did not notice that whatsoever.

Only after what felt like both seconds and years simultaneously, Geralt gave a final hard grunt and said, “Enough.”

Jaskier stopped instantly.

“Thank you.” Geralt tacked on, as if realising the harshness of his words.

“Right.” Jaskier said. He got up shakily, put the vial on the nightstand, and stumbled his way back to his bedroll on weak and unsteady legs.

Geralt didn’t move the entire time. His head was turned Jaskier’s way though, and Jaskier thought he saw the flash of gold glint as he lay down, only to turn and find Geralt with his eyes closed, expression lax, asleep.

Jaskier felt pride thrum low in his chest a that, even if there was also a very _different_ kind of thrum going on somewhere else. He settled on top of his bedroll and ignored it. He fell asleep to dreams full of perky bouncy backsides and golden eyes.

And they haven’t mentioned it once. Nor has it happened again, much to Jaskier’s relief and chagrin. Was he that bad at it?

Presently, Geralt sat back down in the water after standing up.

“Wh –” Jaskier gesticulates. “Where was the point in that?” He flails his hands, gesturing to the last minute and a half of Geralt’s antics.

Geralt looked up and tilted his head in that ever patient, ever exasperated act. “I’ve washed my hair.” He stated. “Now, I need to wash my body.” He waves a hand down at himself, as if Jaskier can’t even see it.

“You can do both, you know!” Jaskier shouts. He can’t explain why he feels so strongly about Geralt standing up for three seconds just to wipe his face while naked only to sit back down, but he _does_.

“Humph.” Geralt says, ever eloquent.

Jaskier kneels by Geralt’s bathtub once more. “Come on.”

“How many of these Lords want to kill you?” Geralt asks, and he looks irritated now, which is never good.

“Hard to say – one stops counting, after a while.” Jaskier tries for a smile. It’s not _his_ fault that these Lords don’t know how to take care of their women, and that after a sweet word or two from Jaskier they’re all rather eager to take things to the bedroom, so who is _Jaskier_ to deny them anyways, truly.

Geralt sighs. “Fine.”

“Yes!” Jaskier jumps to his feet in triumph. “The Butcher and The Bard strike again!”

“Don’t call me that.” Geralt states, and Jaskier immediately regrets it. He’s long known Geralt hates the title, for something that happened in Blaviken all those years ago, but he still doesn’t know why. Geralt isn’t one for deep conversations around the fireside, no matter how much Jaskier pokes and prods.

“My apologies, I meant my trusty and faithful Witcher –”

“Not yours.”

“Right, yes, of course.” Heat presses against Jaskier’s throat, sweaty and stifling. “Anyways, a night of freedom from your Witchering business, a night where you can do anything you want –”

“There’s nothing I want.” Geralt states, hard and curt and inviting no further response.

“Right.” Jaskier repeats, slightly at a loss as Geralt is being blunter than usual. “Well, in any case you might catch some fair lady’s eye.” He pulls his features into a smirk he doesn’t feel. “Can imagine all the maidens might swoon at your stories of heroism and bravery.”

“I doubt it.”

“Might even fall in loveee.” Jaskier sings as he slides his hands around the edges of the metal bathtub and flutters his eyes at Geralt.

“I need no one.” Geralt’s gaze is focused on his hand, until he glances up and meets Jaskier’s gaze. “And the last thing I want is someone needing me.”

“And yet, here we are.”

It slips out unthinkingly. Jaskier doesn’t realise how damning those words sound until Geralt gives a small hum, never taking his eyes off Jaskier, and Jaskier begins to feel lightheaded as the eye contact lingers and Geralt’s eyes glow with that wolfish yellow.

“Anyways!” Jaskier jumps up again, turns around to hide his red cheeks and affects a false bravado. “You better get dressed! It’s in a few hours!”

Truth be known, Geralt makes the world of a difference. Jaskier is free to play his ballads and receive his coin in peace, even catching the eye of a few fair maidens he sends a wink here and there.

The wine is flowing, the conversation animated, Jaskier couldn’t have hoped for a better outcome.

Geralt stays in his corner and broods, as usual, but Jaskier feels Geralt’s eyes following his movements from across the room. He really has committed to the role of bodyguard it seems.

Especially when Jaskier is backed up against the wall and told on no uncertain terms to lower his trousers, and he glances around terrified because maybe Geralt’s gone for a piss or somehow _fucked off_ until –

“Geralt.” Jaskier sighs, relief saturated in his voice.

“Sorry for this misunderstanding.” Geralt begins, smooth as melted butter as he positions himself between them. “I know this man has the face of a cad and a coward –”

Jaskier gapes, astounded.

“But truth be known he was kicked in the balls, by an ox, as a child.”

“That’s –” Jaskier gasps, catches sight of Geralt’s face. “True.”

“My apologies sir, I must have gotten the wrong person, truly I’m sorry.” The man scampers off and toward a group of nobleman, no doubt to spread the tale there as well, and within an hour it’ll have spread around the whole damned room.

“Thanks for that!” Jaskier explodes at Geralt when the man is outside hearing distance. “First you – you hog all the fanfare, what with all your Witchery charm, and then, then you go and _ruin_ my reputation!” He waves a hand around.

Geralt is smiling, clearly unconcerned. “I think I may have saved your life.”

Jaskier huffs. “Oh please, I had it under control.”

Geralt simply raises an eyebrow, a smile still playing at the corners of his normally unforgiving mouth.

“I did!” Jaskier repeats. “No doubt the maiden interested in my singing won’t approach me anymore.” Jaskier pouts as he glances over: he was sure he’d caught the eye of a woman, and she looked like temporary and distracting fun.

“Good.” Geralt states.

Jaskier looks back in surprise to find a pair of warm golden eyes, full of amusement.

“Try not to get anymore daggers in your back by dawn.” Geralt carries on, still with a smile, head titled in that familiar exasperation. Jaskier might call it _fondness_ if he was feeling particularly confident.

“Isn’t that what you’re here for?” Jaskier asks, grinning now as well.

Geralt gives a chuckle, just one, short and brusque. Warmth blooms under Jaskier’s breastbone and stays there. It’s heady and intoxicating, and he wants more of it while he wants to shy away from it.

Jaskier is familiar with fear, knows all its shapes and edges, has felt it’s sharp and thorny touch. But he doesn’t know this fear. This strange, new, unknowable fear of wanting Geralt of Rivia.

Either way, it turns out it’s not Jaskier they should have been worried about after all.

“Idiot bard.” Geralt hauls him out the Kingdom by the scruff of his neck, clutching his lute.

“It’s not my fault! How was I to know this would happen!” Jaskier wails. “You’re the one that said it! You do realise it’s binding once you utter the words, Geralt!”

“I do _now_!” Geralt roars. It’s the angriest Jaskier has ever seen Geralt look, and the weight of what has just happened settles upon them both.

“Look, Geralt.” Jaskier wrangles out of Geralt’s grip and rushes to keep pace with him. “It’s not so bad, parenthood –”

Geralt growls and punches a tree. Which is a little dramatic, but then so is Geralt. Obviously.

“ _I’d_ be happy, if I were you.” Jaskier mutters, but he doesn’t expect Geralt to hear.

“How can I be happy, Jaskier?” Geralt turns and his eyes are glowing. “I’m a Witcher, there’s no way I can raise a child!”

“Well, I mean.” Jaskier tries, at a loss. “Obviously you’d. Take up less contracts…”

“It’s not good enough.” Geralt growls. “I’m a _Witcher_ , it’s all anyone can see me as. I couldn’t subject a child to that life. It’s a bleak and lonely road.”

Geralt himself seems to realise what he’s just admitted, and he stares at Jaskier wordlessly.

“I don’t.” Jaskier states.

Geralt blinks, startled. “What?”

Jaskier swallows. “I don’t. Just see you as that.”

Geralt watches him. His expression is open, his clean shaven face and pulled-back hair revealing more of his features than Jaskier is used to. He looks oddly vulnerable in the light.

“A Witcher, I mean.” Jaskier clarifies. “I don’t just see you as a Witcher.”

Geralt holds Jaskier’s gaze for a beat. Jaskier feels embarrassed and exposed at that level-headed stare, but he subjects himself to it. He knows Geralt is determining his honesty.

Eventually Geralt turns away. “Let’s set up camp. Somewhere where there’s nobody to burden me with a child.”

“Oh, yeah, sure.” Jaskier nods, relieved to be free of that stare. It does things, it reveals things, and there’s only so much squirming and wriggling Jaskier can do to avoid a flushed face and a lovestruck expression.

They manage to find a relatively dry spot and Jaskier goes about collecting wood while Geralt settles Roach and takes their things from her back, dropping it down on the floor with less care than usual.

Once they’ve made an adequate fire and warm themselves in front of it, Jaskier can tell Geralt is still lost in thought, pondering the Child Surprise.

“You’re a good man.” Jaskier states, firm. “I don’t care what anyone says. Or what happened in the past to give you your various titles. Anyone with the good sense to get to know you can see that.”

Geralt is quiet for a beat. “You truly believe that?”

Jaskier turns to him, surprised. It’s not like Geralt to question Jaskier, or even want additional information on what Jaskier’s just said. In fact, that’s never happened until now.

“Yes.” Jaskier states.

“I butchered an entire village, you know.”

“Yeah, well – maybe they deserved it. Maybe they weren’t a very nice village.”

Geralt huffs a laugh, low and amused. Jaskier sits up a little straighter in pride.

“They were innocent.” Geralt carries on, but he’s smiling.

“Not from sin, because Geralt of Rivia would know.”

Geralt laughs this time, a full bodied one. The sound is deep and dark and a little scratchy, probably from lack of practise.

Jaskier beams wide, feels the lightest he’s ever felt. He opens his mouth, equipped with another joke, but Geralt – for the first time ever – beats Jaskier.

“I killed some attackers to the village, but because there were none left, there was nobody to prove it.” He speaks as if discussing the weather. “The village thought I had murdered some innocent travellers. A simple misunderstanding.”

Jaskier gapes. He stands up. “A simple misunderstanding! Geralt, this has followed you your entire _life_! People still speak of it to this day! Just in there!” Jaskier waves a hand. “I was asked thrice! And I said the people must have surely deserved the Witcher’s sword!”

Geralt looks up at him, but he’s still smiling. The corners of his eyes are creased. “Why would you say that when you knew nothing of it?”

“Exactly! Now you understand my deep regret, if I had known I could have set them straight! And you call _me_ the idiot! Idiot _Witcher_ , I’m permitted to call you from here on out! We’ve got to change this, we’ve got to tell people –”

“Ah, forget it.” Geralt waves a hand. “People will believe what they want.”

“And they _want_ to believe you didn’t do this! Everybody wants to believe that you live up to being the kindest Witcher in the business, I’ve heard it said!” Jaskier waggles a finger, and if he’s the one that begun those conversations in the first place, then how will Geralt know?

Geralt glances away from him. “Trust me, Jaskier. I’ve been alive longer than you. I know people. They see something different to them, they don’t understand it, therefore they don’t like it.”

The truth in those words pierce Jaskier to the core. It’s true, and he wishes it wasn’t.

“But not you.” And now Geralt looks back, and his smile has returned as well.

Jaskier is speechless. He has no reply for that comment.

Geralt stands up and steps closer, tilts his chin to look down at Jaskier. “Jaskier. Why would you say that when you knew nothing of it?”

Jaskier swallows. “Say … say what?”

“That they deserved my sword, when every version of the tale puts the guilt on me?” Geralt’s eyes pass over Jaskier’s face even with amusement still lingering in them, as if the answer matters to him, as if it’s truly _important_.

“Because it’s the truth.” Jaskier states.

Geralt sighs.

“Because I knew it to be the truth.” Jaskier amends.

“But _how?”_ Geralt asks, as if this is the crux of the issue, the core of what he’s been trying to ask.

Jaskier searches. He wants to give Geralt the answer he’s looking for. There are so many reasons for why Jaskier knows Geralt to be the man he thinks he is, knows without a shred of doubt that no matter how the story goes Geralt is in the right. And he could say them all to Geralt’s face, _because you’re the best man I have ever met bar none_ , and, _because you only seem to lie if it’s to get me out of a mess,_ and _because you’ve saved more lives than you have ever taken including monsters_ , and, _because I know of contracts that you’ve turned down that had a pretty penny attached to them but even I might have thought twice about the details,_ and finally, _because I’ve watched you, all day, every day, since I met you and I know your loneliness and I know your longing and I know your soul, and it’s only good._

But Jaskier holds Geralt’s gaze, his clear amber eyes darker in this light, open and honest.

“Because.” Jaskier begins, and shrugs. “I know you.”

Geralt swoops low and presses his mouth over Jaskier’s.

Jaskier jerks back, startled. It parts their lips for a moment and Jaskier catches a flash of uncertainty between Geralt’s furrowed brows until he surges forward, his hands coming to fist in Geralt’s court-attire that he hasn’t changed from, mouth opening so they might deepen the kiss.

Jaskier runs his hands up to Geralt’s shoulders into his thick hair, fists two handfuls in it while Geralt wraps both his arms around Jaskier’s waist. He fits Jaskier’s body snug and tight against Geralt’s, one thigh slipping between Jaskier’s legs, and Jaskier about to get _very_ light-headed _very_ fast so they better have a conversation about this before that happens.

“Geralt.” Jaskier parts their lips for breath.

Geralt chases his mouth before he seems to realise and pulls back. He doesn’t let go of his hold on Jaskier.

“What. What’s happening?” Jaskier can barely _see_ , that’s what is happening. Is there some sorcery in kissing Witchers?

“We were kissing.” Geralt states. “Now we’re not.”

“Oh right, very clever.” Jaskier exhales, still a little out of breath, and Geralt smiles down at him with those creased eyes.

“I meant, what is happening between us?” Jaskier clarifies.

Geralt tilts his head in that fond-exasperation. “What does it look like?”

Jaskier won’t deign that with a response.

Geralt sighs. “Fine.” He grunts. “I’ve wanted this for a while. I couldn’t be sure how you felt, but I decided after what you just said to me now it was worth a try.”

A million questions flood to Jaskier’s mind, but he knows Geralt prefers non-verbal communication over verbal, and a discussion about feelings might be his worst nightmare.

It’s better to ask through something other than words.

“This?” Jaskier gestures between their mouths. “Or … or this?” Jaskier lifts a hand and settles a palm against Geralt’s rough cheek. He sees his hand tremble, just slightly, on Geralt’s face. He knows Geralt can feel it.

“This.” Geralt gives Jaskier a squeeze.

Jaskier beams, wide and immediate. “Ah. Great!”

They get back to kissing. It’s as wonderful as Jaskier was led to believe, though there are decidedly less legends about it.

Jaskier decides to make it his life’s mission to change that fact.

After they’ve kissed so much that Jaskier grows dizzy and needs to lie down, and Geralt grumbles all the while about _idiot bards who are too ridiculous for their own good,_ Jaskier settles back on his bedroll and waits for Geralt to join him.

He just has a few _tiny_ questions still left unanswered, and decides now is probably the best time to ask.

“Why were you unsure about my feelings?” He sits up, curious, as Geralt lies beside him.

Geralt pushes him down with a hand on his shoulder. Jaskier huffs and lies down, but the dizziness does recede a little.

Then Geralt hovers over Jaskier, one cocked eyebrow in place. “I gave you my arse, Bard.”

Jaskier blinks. “T-True, but …” And then he gapes. “ _Wait_.”

Geralt grins, all teeth.

“But you told me to stop?”

“Only because you didn’t seem to be getting it.” Geralt replies.

“But.” Jaskier starts.

“Enough.” Geralt decides that Jaskier is well-rested now and settles on top of him, half his weight on the bedroll as he slides a thigh in-between Jaskier’s, one hand coming down to hold the nape of Jaskier’s neck and pull his mouth to Geralt’s

“Couldn’t you hear it in my songs?” Jaskier tries.

Geralt stops and pulls back.

“I had hoped you might hear it.” Jaskier murmurs, looking away.

“I did hear it.” Geralt states.

Jaskier blinks.

“I knew that you felt something. And I could smell it, too, whenever we were close. But all my efforts were met with nothing.”

“What efforts!” Jaskier cries.

“I’m naked around you, Jaskier, almost all the time.” Geralt tilts his head, only this time in confusion. “I assumed you would understand.”

“Wh – that’s not how this _works!_ You can’t just strip and then stand there, expectant, without saying a word. And even then that’s not what you did! Most of the time those were _baths_ , and I just happened to be there.”

“Why would I purposefully bathe in front of someone I didn’t want?”

“Why indeed!” Jaskier cries, which makes no sense. “And here I was, convinced you felt absolutely nothing.” He shakes his head, exasperated. “I was sure you couldn’t return my affections, and all I had to do was understand how Witcher’s seem to court.”

It still makes happiness bubble up inside Jaskier that Geralt felt the same. That he was waiting on Jaskier to notice, just as nervous and embarrassed as Jaskier it seems.

“Well I wasn’t sure what I felt.” Geralt admits. “I had never felt it before.”

Jaskier flushes, swallows a strange lump in his throat. “And what … what is it, exactly, you feel?”

“I’m still not sure.” Geralt says.

Jaskier tries to not look too obviously crestfallen. Geralt can probably smell his immediate drop from giddy down to gut-wrenchingly disappointed. It’s probably not a very appealing scent.

Maybe this is simply an experiment; maybe he doesn’t feel for Jaskier with the strength that Jaskier does for him.

“Ah well.” Jaskier tries, which lands lamely and falls flat.

Geralt looks down at him. “What do you call the feeling that happens if you see someone smiling at another person and, say, it’s as though you’ve been doused in lake water?”

Jaskier holds Geralt’s gaze, his flush darkening. “Well. I would call that jealousy.”

Geralt grunts. “No. I didn’t want to be the person. I didn’t want anything they had. But it hurt to watch.”

Jaskier frowns, points at his face. “Are we still talking about me?”

Geralt closes his eyes. “ _Yes_ , idiot.”

“Oh.” Jaskier says. And then he aches a little, to know he made Geralt feel this way. He places a hand on Geralt’s face, runs a thumb along his gristly skin. Geralt holds his gaze, his eyes aglow ever so slightly.

“Truthfully, I’m not sure what to call it. A mixture of longing and, well, pain. Which are often the same thing.” Jaskier says.

“Hmph.” Geralt states, ever eloquent. “And what do people call the feeling of a squirming bag of worms inside their stomach whenever they made that someone smile? Or made them upset?”

Jaskier laughs, unabashed. “ _Butterflies!_ Surely you’ve had butterflies?”

Geralt frowns.

“It’s – it’s a nervous type of happiness, I suppose is the best way to put it, although the second is just nerves. Or probably regret.” He grins wide. He thinks of all the times Geralt snapped a dark ‘shut up’ while on the road, and Jaskier fell into a mulish silence as Geralt threw him glances now and then. Thinks about how he only spoke when Geralt returned with a rabbit and, after roasting it, offered Jaskier more than half.

“There truly are a million human emotions.” Geralt says, curious.

“Were those the only two?” Jaskier asks, innocent.

“Well. I recognised the attraction easily. That only seemed to grow more each day, the damned thing.”

“Really?” Jaskier gapes. “This is all very interesting. For me?” He points to himself again.

Geralt sighs once more. “ _Yes_. It wasn’t immediate, but when it did happen it wouldn’t go away.”

Jaskier is still staring, mouth-open. “Well I never.” Is all that comes out.

“And the feeling of not being alone was an odd one. I’m not sure what to label it.”

Jaskier grins. “Irritating?”

“Welcome.” Geralt says. “Or ... soothing.”

Jaskier smiles and tucks a strand of hair behind Geralt’s ear. He knew he hadn’t read Geralt wrong, when they first met.

“And this one, now.” Geralt states.

Jaskier blinks. “What, here and now?”

Geralt nods. “Yes. It’s as though I have everything I could want. But also, as if I’m in a perfect state of health.” He cocks an eyebrow down at Jaskier. “Which I’m evidently not.”

Jaskier throat constricts. “Well.” His voice is raspy. “I suppose I would call that … love. But that’s just one man’s humble opinion –”

“Well if that’s what it’s called.” Geralt interrupts. He smiles down at Jaskier, all golden eyes. “Then I suppose that’s what it must be.”

Jaskier gapes. It’s him who pulls Geralt down for a kiss this time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! And if you enjoyed, or have any feedback, feel free to pop it in a comment. I love knowing what people thought! I appreciate constructive criticism too :)


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